


Sansa's Choice

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: Sandor Clegane has been betrothed to Sansa Stark since her childhood. But he will not take her to wife until she decides she wants to be his wife.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little drabble from 2013 I had sitting in my folder, so I polished it up a bit and posted it. It's supposed to have more of a fairy tale feel. Hope you enjoy!

Not long after Sandor was betrothed to Lord Eddards’s eldest daughter, Sansa had taken to following him around with a shy smile. She wanted him to hold her hand everywhere she went, and Sandor sensed that something had shifted in the way Sansa viewed him.  He was no longer her sworn shield but her future husband, the man who would be her lord, and the father of her children.

The changes in Sansa’s behavior continued to progress as she grew older, much to Sandor’s alarm. Whenever she thought Sandor wasn’t looking, Sansa gazed at him, starry eyed, as though he were some buggering hero from one of the shit stories her septa read to her.

He tried to tell her he was no ser, but she was not convinced. In conversation with highborns and smallfolk alike, Sansa routinely referred to him as her intended, her betrothed, and her lord.  She would serve him first at the evening meal, sewed intricately embroidered tunics and sleeping clothes for him, and gifted him favors featuring gold and black birds and hounds. They were not family; not yet anyway. Why would she treat him as though they were already married?

Sansa was too pure, too beautiful, too kind to be joined with one such as him, a fact Sandor was reminded of every time he saw her. Nevertheless, Sandor was determined to do all he could to make it up to her for being such an obviously unworthy match for Sansa.

When he asked her why she was doing these things, Sansa merely stated: “Because I care for you.”

Her words haunted him. It both annoyed Sandor and yet touched a part of him he buried deep inside long ago, the part that wanted to live up to the titles that she called him, the part that longed to be the hero that she saw in him.

He trained harder than any man in Winterfell, volunteered for the most dangerous assignments, and protected Sansa with a ferocity that became legendary throughout the North. Sandor did so to prove himself as the most formidable warrior in her father’s retinue.

When Sansa turned fourteen, Lord Eddard offered to give him her hand in marriage immediately following her nameday. Sandor stoutly refused. He was a scarred brute, a man born for killing, not courting. As much as he cared for her, Sandor could not bear to sully the innocent sweetness of the girl with his desire. She would be relieved, he convinced himself, not to have to give herself to him just yet.

* * *

To his dismay, though, Sansa seemed disappointed, dejected even, when she heard his refusal. But being the well-mannered young lady that she was, she did not question him. Not long after, Sansa began shyly offering him small displays of affection, such as frequent hugs and kisses on the face and hands.

Sandor puzzled over why she would seek out affection from an ugly dog. He was not meant for a pure hearted, delicate creature like Sansa. If she only knew what coarse desires burned within him every time they touched, Sandor was certain she would run away screaming. Didn’t she understand her effect on him? She had pressed herself close enough to him for her to feel his desire, but would his innocent Little Bird even know to look for such a thing? Resolutely he resisted kissing her on the mouth, the man fearing that once he had a taste of her, he would no longer be able to refuse taking her to wife. 

Oftentimes after the evening training session, she would come to him, take off his boots, and gently massage the muscles of his sore legs and arms. Her gestures were tender and innocent and yet thoroughly arousing to the man. Much to his shame, Sandor felt himself responding to her touch, and even though he knew he should stop her, he just couldn‘t bring himself to do it.

As Sansa neared her fifteenth nameday, her father once again asked him if he was ready to take her to wife, and once again, Sandor said no. 

“What is it you find objectionable in my Sansa, Clegane?” Ned had asked him privately. “Is she not good to you?”

Sandor thought of Sansa as she was that morning, smiling and clapping as he trained. She had worn a new dress of yellow silk to honor him that clung to her curves and set off her hair. She was so beautiful that Sandor could hardly focus on his opponent. When he pummeled the soldier into submission, Sandor returned to her side like the dog he was.

Tenderly Sansa wiped his brow herself, smiling and blushing as she did so and then provided him with a flagon of lemon water that she made especially for him. He greedily drank it down, admiring her beauty all the while. Around them, Sandor heard the whispers of disapproval, but it was clear that Sansa did not care, and when he finished, she kissed each cheek.

“You fought fiercely, my lord,” she beamed at him proudly. No woman had ever looked at Sandor in such a way, and her affectionate display brought his heart into his throat.

Eddard coughed, stirring Sandor from his contemplative state.

“No, quite the opposite,” Sandor fingered the hilt of his sword, “she is better to me than any woman I have ever known.”

The corner of Lord Eddard’s mouth curled upward.

“Do you think her homely?”

Snorting, Sandor shook his head. “No, my lord; Lady Sansa is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And grows still more so every day. A true lady.”

"She has bled for four years hence. She is a woman grown and yet you refrain from wedding and bedding her.”

There was no offense in the man’s tone, just genuine curiosity. Sandor was not blind to the way the men in Winterfell looked at the little bird, and knew most would have pressed Lord Eddard to marry her on her thirteenth nameday. But Sandor, though he was many things, was not like the others.

“There is not one objectionable thing about Lady Sansa, my lord,” Sandor chose his words carefully. “She is very lovely and talented, smart and kind. Far too good for this second son of a kennel master. Our arrangement was that I would take her to wife after her sixteenth nameday and I mean to keep it.”

“So it was, but that would not have stopped most men.” Ned tilted his head as he eyed Sandor. “It has been within your right to take her from the moment she bled. Tell me what is causing you pause.”

Sandor’s mind wandered to the day he caught her in a snowball fight with Robb, Theon and Jeyne; her girlish shrieks had filled the courtyard-and his heart-with a feeling Sandor would have named happiness, had he ever experienced it. Neither he nor his sister had been afforded that kind of joy in their childhood. After observing her, Sandor felt as though he was intruding on something very precious, something truly pure in a way he had never experienced. She was too perfect for a dog like him; too trusting, too gentle.

Sandor was a killer, a man whose insides matched the horror his brother made of his face, man who would sully the beauty of her innocence with his desire; he was loathe to put to an end to her sweet artlessness by making her his wife.

“I just want the little bird to enjoy her girlhood for as long as she can.” The huge warrior shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “She has plenty of time for growing up later.”

Smiling wanly, Ned had patted him on the shoulder. “She loves you already. But it does my heart good to hear you say you are willing to wait, Clegane, and reinforces my confidence that you are indeed the right man for my beloved girl.”

Lord Eddard’s words both pleased and confused him. Sansa’s affection for him was as it always had been; Sandor didn’t know, even if it was love, if he would recognize it.

“When she is ready, I want her to choose _if_ and _when_ she becomes my wife.” Guardedly he observed Lord Eddard, whose smile only grew at his words. “Only then will I wed her.”


	2. Chapter 2

 “Only then will I wed her.” Sandor repeated, wondering if Lord Eddard heard him.

“Sansa will become your wife, you need not fear on that score.” Ned chuckled to himself. “Though you may feel unworthy of her, she sees you as her hero. But know that, though she is young yet, her affection and love for you runs deeper than even she realizes.”

“My Lord?” Sandor felt his ears growing hotter by the minute.

“Let us speak plainly.”

“Aye.”

“My Sansa has been very disappointed that you have not yet married her.”

Staggered, Sandor leaned back and wiped his face with his hand. “What?”

“Her friends have put it in her head that you do not want her.”

“Buggering nosy little-“

Lord Eddard held up his hand. “She is so convinced of it that she begged I inquired of you.”

Equally angered and shamed, Sandor gathered himself and then quietly offered. “I’ll speak to her, tell her the truth of the matter.”

“Good idea. And while I agree it is wise to wait to wed her, you must not undervalue Sansa’s feelings. She has a gentle heart.”

“I would never trifle with her, ahem, heart, my lord.” Sandor swallowed hard.  “I care for her greatly. More than anyone I have known in this life.”

In truth, Sansa was precious to him, and he guarded their intimate moments-innocent though they were-fiercely. She bestowed him far more affection than the scarred man ever expected to receive from any woman, let alone one as sweet natured and beautiful as Sansa. Sandor was hard pressed to name the feelings she elicited in him; perhaps he did love her after all.  

Ned’s watchful gaze stirred him out of his thoughts.

“Forgive me, I meant no offense. As you well know, I’m not a man used to dealing with women in such a way. I will right this at once.” Sandor bowed tersely.

“My wife and I will be leaving for the capital soon, Clegane,” Ned announced. “We will be meeting with your king. He wants his son to be betrothed to Sansa, but I will not allow that to happen.” His demeanor turned grave. “My son Robb will be leaving to meet with the Northern lords. Jon will be taking Rickon and Bran to Castle Black.” He leaned in closer still to Sandor. “Winter is coming. I need you to guard Sansa closer than ever before, even within the castle walls. Is that understood?”

“Aye, my lord. What of Lady Arya?” Sandor inquired.

“Jory will keep after her.” Eddard leaned in closer. “If anything should happen, you marry Sansa the very same day Clegane, understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If Robert won’t take no for an answer, you wed my daughter, take her and Arya to the keep I showed you and don’t leave. Swear to me.” Ned held out Ice to Sandor, who in turn bent the knee and placed his hands on the pommel.

“I swear to guard Lady Sansa and Lady Arya, shield their backs, and give my life for theirs if need be. I swear it on the old gods and the new.”

“You will always have a place at my home and at my table. I will ask no duty of you that will bring you dishonor. I swear it on the old gods and the new. Arise, Lord Sandor Clegane of Winterfrost Keep.” Ned commanded. “There will be no ceremony for you, Clegane, you must forgive me. But the time for such merriment has passed. When I return, we will feast in your honor.”

Rising, Sandor bowed his head. He had no desire to become a lord, but the seriousness in Lord Eddard’s countenance showed him now was not the time to get into it.

* * *

Each day Sandor took out his worries and frustration on the men in the training yard. Predictably Sansa was thrilled by his appointment, and her training to be the lady of a great household intensified soon thereafter, the lessons filled the greater part of the day. In addition to learning the history and houses of Westeros, Sansa was taught baking, sewing, needlepoint, painting, the treatment of minor ailments and singing.

While she studied her lessons, Sandor increased his training sessions, the man mindful that as the War of the Five Kings advanced, his little lady would face ever greater danger, and he wanted to be ready for whatever came her way.

One day, Sansa finished early. She sought him out, finding him in the training yard, in the middle of an intense sparring session with Jory Cassel. Sandor caught her peeking at him from behind the stands while he fought, the glinting of red strands in the wan winter light catching his attention. After quickly disarming his opponent, the huge man turned toward Sansa and waved her over to him.

“What are you doing over there, my lady?” Sandor gruffly queried as he wiped his chest and face with his tunic. “You shouldn’t be out here in the training yard, peeking around corners like some common stable boy.” In truth, he did not want her there because the little bird was growing into an extremely beautiful young woman, and the men of Winterfell had begun to take notice of her.

“You didn’t pick me up today from my lessons,” Sansa started quietly, her cheeks flushing red as she spoke. “I was worried about you.” Shyly she let her eyes drift over his bare chest and stomach, her mouth curling into a small smile as she did so.

The men began to jeer him loudly from the lists.

Standing in the center of the yard, Jory Cassel turned and shouted, “Silence, all of you. Our lady is speaking.”                        

“Jory,” Sansa spoke softly, as though she were in her rooms and not amongst a group of rowdy men. “I would just like a moment to speak to my betrothed, please. Then you may go back to training.”

 _Fuck me sideways,_ Sandor cursed under his breath. He started to walk toward her but inexplicably the girl retreated further.

Puzzled, he frowned. Her cautious demeanor began to make him nervous. “What troubles you, my lady?” Sandor waved her over to him. “Come here to me, lass.”

Timidly Sansa drew the toe of her slipper in a circle in the sand and bit her lip. Despite her rapidly developing figure and sharpening features, she quickly turned withdrawn, even childlike, under his gaze. “No, thank you. Mother said ladies don’t go to the training yard.”

Chuckling darkly, Sandor pointed the tip of his sword toward her ragamuffin sister Arya, who sat in the stands with the rest of the spectators. “Why ever not? Your sister comes to watch.”

“Hey Hound, I’m no lady!” Arya shouted at him. “Not like Sansa. That’s why I’m allowed.”

“True enough, that.” Sandor conceded with a harsh laugh. The men at arms all snickered behind him.

“You’re welcome as far as I’m concerned, my _betrothed_.” It was his attempt at humor, but Sansa only blushed further still.

He watched Sansa’s eyes wandering over his torso curiously. Suddenly Sandor remembered he was fighting bare chested, so casually he pulled his tunic over his head as he waited for her to answer him.

“My, she’s a looker. Pretty red hair. Teats, ass and face.” One of the men leered at her. “She’s too pretty for you, Hound.”

“You will not speak of your lady in such a way!” Sandor’s fighting knife was already in his hand. “If we weren’t in our liege lord’s home, I’d cut your tongue out. I’ll see you cast out of Winterfell just the same.”

None of whom dared contradict him.

Jory shouted, “You men, seize him and take him to Lord Eddard!” Roughly he drug the man away. Once they were out of sight, Sandor turned back toward her.

“I-I shouldn’t have come,” uneasily Sansa shuffled away, her eyes brimming. “Never mind, I’ll seek you out later.”

“Come here, lass,” Sandor rasped softly. “You came out here to speak your piece, and speak it you shall. Bugger the rest.”

 “Sandor,” Sansa smoothed down her skirts, her eyes firmly fixed on a spot on the ground as she edged closer. “Please, would you be so good as to come closer? I must speak to you in private at once.” She gestured for him to come to her side before she nervously glanced around.

The soldiers all began laughing in earnest.

One look at Sansa’s flushed cheeks told him that their mockery had deeply embarrassed her, the sight fanning Sandor’s fury.

“Shut the fuck up, you buggering bastards,” he snarled menacingly, “or I’ll skin every one of you like I did that bear Lady Sansa is wearing.” Snorting, Sandor glared at each man until the yard went silent.

“Yeah!” Arya cheered from the stands.

All too late, he remembered Lady Catelyn had chastised him for his language around her daughters. Cursing himself inwardly, Sandor slowly approached Sansa, who bashfully curtseyed, her eyes lighting up as he drew closer. Momentarily her beauty distracted him until Sandor noticed a shiver move through Sansa when she met his gaze.

“Now, my lady, tell me what’s brought you out to the training yard on such a cold afternoon?” Tisking, Sandor pulled her closer to him, binding the bearskin cloak closer to her body. Her rosebud mouth curved into a smile at his action.

A giggle went up from the people in the stands but Sandor didn’t care; he was her sworn shield and her betrothed, it was his job to keep her safe and warm.

Nervously Sansa broke eye contact with him and looked about the laughing crowd.

“Ignore them, lass. Now tell me what I can do for you.” Impatiently Sandor patted his foot.

“I-I have a surprise for you,” Sansa whispered conspiratorially. “I-I wanted to give it to you in private, but-“ she glanced around her once more, her cheeks reddening prettily, “but I haven’t had a moment alone with you in ever so long.”

That was a bit of an exaggeration, for Sandor had escorted Sansa alone to her chambers the previous night, and she hadn’t mentioned anything to him then.

Annoyed, Sandor closed the distance between them. “The training yard is no place for gift giving, Lady Sansa,” he rasped next to her ear. Immediately Sandor regretted his words, for Sansa’s pouty lower lip quivered while she began to nervously wring her hands.

“Lass, you shouldn’t give gifts to your betrothed where these buggering lowlife common soldiers can stare at you. It isn’t proper for a lady of your station.”

Slowly Sansa nodded, her smooth brow knitting together as she pondering his words. “Yes I know, but you said to come to you whenever I wished.” She stared at him so sincerely he didn’t have the heart to scold her further.

“So I did,” Sandor sighed and wiped his hand over his sweaty brow. Quickly Sansa handed him her handkerchief.

Like the woman who gave it to him, it was lacy and delicate and far too pretty for the likes of him, but Sandor accepted in just the same.

“I will come to your rooms after I get changed and then you can give it to me then like the proper lady you are. How’s that?”

Her eyes brightened and impulsively the girl clutched his hand. “Oh yes, Sandor, that is a very good idea! Thank you for thinking of my honor, it is so good of you. I will go make it ready at once!”  She glanced down at the delicate lace in his hand. “Keep it as my favor, my lord.”

Without another word, Sansa pivoted toward the castle and sprinted out of the courtyard. Sandor saw her septa scolding her but the girl didn’t even slow down.

“Ignore that stodgy old bat, little bird. Fly away now!” Sandor shouted after her with a chuckle.

After bathing, Sandor carefully trimmed his beard and draped the new cloak Sansa had made him over his shoulders. Next he combed his hair to cover the burned side of his face, though in truth it was more for his own ego than for Sansa’s benefit; the girl had never shied away from his scarred countenance. Grunting, he stared hard into the mirror. “Why such a lady sees fit to dote on you dog, I’ll never know.”

Stalking through the hallways of Winterfell, Sandor settled into a brooding mood.

“Where’re you off to, Hound?” Theon Greyjoy called after him.

“He’s off to see that sweet little thing he gets to pluck,” one of his friends answered. Pivoting around, Sandor pressed the blade of his fighting knife to the young soldier’s throat.

Nervously Theon stepped aside, his eyes widening in surprise. “Clegane-“

“Don’t fucking talk to me, you little shit,” Sandor seethed out. “I’ve heard how you speak of the little bird.” He narrowed his eyes at the young man. “You value your tongue, you’ll hold it just now. And remember, I don’t give a bloody fuck that you’re a Greyjoy or Lord Stark’s ward.”

Theon swallowed his protest.

“And you, if I ever hear you talking shit about your lord’s daughter again,” Sandor snarled while drawing a shallowly cut line across the man’s neck. “I’ll cut your throat and rip out your tongue, Dothraki style. Go on, just try me. I dare you.”

“No, please, my lord, we meant no offense to her-“ Theon began, holding up his hands.

“I’m no fucking lord, you buggering bastard,” Sandor snarled. “You offended me, the man who will be her husband.” He derisively looked the boy over.  “You think I don’t know that somehow you got the idea in your head that Lord Eddard would marry her to you? Know this: even if he agreed, I would have seen that it happened over your dead body, believe that.”

Glancing down, Sandor noticed the front of Theon’s breeches wetted. Snorting in disgust, he abruptly dropped the man.

“See that it doesn’t happen again.”

When he arrived at Sansa’s rooms, Sandor drew several deep breaths to still his residual anger before knocking.

* * *

Sansa stood in front of the mirror, admiring her new gown. It had taken her two months to sew the garment, a winter rose blue damask with a neckline lower than what she normally wore befitting a young woman on the cusp of her sixteenth birthday. Satisfied, she dabbed a bit of perfume behind each ear and then turned her attention to the surprise she had made for Sandor.

His familiar knock interrupted her. Nervously she tucked her curls in place before opening the door.

“Where is your maid, girl?” He glanced around suspiciously.

“I sent her away,” Sansa blushed prettily. She made herself busy arranging dishes on the table. “I wanted to serve dinner to you myself.”

“Many thanks. But no need for all this formality,” Sandor rasped low as he inspected the finely arranged meal set before him. Suddenly a great heaviness befell him.  “What are you about?”

“I have been working very hard to learn to prepare your favorite dishes,” Sansa nervously wrung her hands. “I know we will likely have kitchen help in our new keep, but it pleases me to do this for you.”

Pursing his lips together, Sandor was taken aback. Silently he regarded her, his words sticking in his throat.

Sansa took his hand and led him to the chair she designated for him closes to the fire.

“We have cheese and onion pie, pigeon pie as well as honeyed chicken, venison stew and spruced shortbread. We would have had lemon cakes too, but I…well, I burned them.”

She looked so genuinely distraught that Sandor threw his head back and laughed. “So all that smoke in the training yard this morning-that was your lemoncakes aflame?”

Nodding, Sansa awkwardly tried to laugh along, though she looked as though she were on the verge of tears and Sandor’s heart softened immediately.

After he sat down in the chair, he drew her into his arms so he could look up into her face.  “I’m honored, little bird, truly.” Awkwardly Sandor kissed her hands, hoping she would enjoy such attentions as much as he did. “No one has ever made me so fine a meal. I’m not worth such a strenuous endeavor lass, or the risk of burning your pretty little fingers.” Taking her hesitancy for needing more reassurance, Sandor kissed her hands again.

Stunned, Sansa stared at him, wide eyed, her smile finally reaching her eyes. “Are you pleased, truly?”

“I am, Sansa, very pleased,” Sandor sat her on his lap and pulled both plates in front of them.  She squeaked in surprise but did not move away.

“The meal will taste better still if you share it with me like.” He grinned mischievously at her. Relaxing, she rested her back against his chest while allowing her legs to drape over his thigh. Sandor could feel the soft curve of her bottom and the joining of her thighs, sending a spark of need through the men.

“As you wish, my lord,” Sansa blushed deeply in his arms. Pleased, she excitedly squirmed on his lap, making Sandor’s growing desire for her difficult to restrain.

It had been a long time since Sandor had a woman and he knew he had to be careful with her. Gently he readjusted her and then placed his finger on her lips. “When we’re alone, call me Sandor, lass. I love hearing your sweet voice say my name.” Drawn to Sansa’s silky red strands, Sandor indulged himself and nuzzled into her hair.

“Alright, _Sandor_ ,” she quietly answered, her eyes shining happily.

“We’re an honest pair, aren’t we?” Sandor tipped her face up to his.

Sansa nodded. “Of course, Sandor. I would never lie to you.”

“Good,” he sniffed, shifting beneath her. “Then tell me why you believed those so-called friends of yours?”

“What do you mean?” Sansa sat up with a start.

“You know very well what I mean,” he stared at her, anger flooding him as he spoke. “Why would you believe them when they said I didn’t want to wed you?”

“Well, do you want to marry me?” Sansa spoke so softly he barely heard her. “You have put it off twice, and well, I thought-“ She stopped mid-sentence and hung her head. “I thought maybe you didn’t want me. Maybe you don’t think I’m pretty or-“ Sansa buried her face in her handkerchief.

“Hush with that,” Sandor interrupted, his voice harsher than he intended. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, Sansa. Don’t ever doubt that.”

“Even prettier than the ladies in King’s Landing?” She peeked out from her handkerchief curiously.

“Humph, all fuss and feathers,” he waved his hand dismissively. “You are beautiful, outward and inward. I’m proud to be your betrothed. We’ll wed, lass, when you’re ready.”

Smiling, Sansa leaned away from him slightly then. “I have another surprise for you.”

“Oh, aye?” He raised his brow at her as she retrieved a long wooden box. Upon closer inspection, Sandor noticed it was carved from beautiful mahogany and engraved with his sigil. As gently as he knew how, Sandor untied the yellow ribbon. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a castle forged, silver and gold handled dragon glass dagger.

“Sansa, Seven Hells, woman,” Sandor croaked out, the man taken aback by the fine weapon. He tested its weight in his hands, examined the blade and the grip, which fit his large hand perfectly. “Thank you, my lady. It’s exquisite. Usually the handle is too small for me.”

Sansa wiggled happily in his arms. “I pilfered one of your riding gloves so the smith could scale the handle. Jon helped me acquire the dragon glass. It’s very rare.”

“That it is,” he whistled low, the man barely able to take his eyes off of it to look at her.

Nervously Sansa stared into his eyes in the way only she dared to do. “I-I hope you don’t mind. I used some of the money set aside for our wedded day with Father’s permission. It will mean fewer food courses served at the reception meal but to me it was worth it to give you so fine a gift for our betrothal.”

Grinning, Sandor pulled her close to his chest and tipped her face up to his. “How could I mind, lass? It is yours to do with as you please. I’m grateful you chose to gift this to me rather than gorge all the fat lords of the North a one hundred course dog and pony show.”

It was Sansa’s turn to throw her head back and laugh. She laughed until tears rolled down her eyes. “Oh Sandor, at the last wedding here, twenty of them ate until they foundered. It was disgusting.”

“Aye, I recall,” Sandor gave her his handkerchief, pleased to see her so happy. “Let’s not have that happen.”

“Agreed,” Sansa wiped her eyes, “no tossing cookies at our reception meal.”

Heatedly Sandor regarded the beauty in his lap. “No, lass. And no bedding, either.”

“No?” Sansa bit her lip, blushing crimson under his gaze. “But it is tradition.”

“Bugger that,” Sandor growled harshly. “No bloody drunken will grope at you, wife,” he held up his new blade, “let alone undress you, or they’ll lose their heads.”

“We are _not_ Dothraki, Sandor,” Sansa laughed again. “No bloodletting at our reception meal, either, please.”

“Well I won’t promise you, my lady,” Sandor traced his finger across her cheek. Sansa was so sweet and so very beautiful, and she was his. Before that night he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to be wedded to her.

Oh, Sandor had pictured their wedding night many times as he took himself in hand and stroked his release; but to share a meal with her, having her all too himself in _their_ keep, waiting on him, sitting in his lap - all appealed to him in a way Sandor had not anticipated.  He could take her for his own at any time; her father would not prevent him. Still, he needed to hear her say she wanted him, that she was ready to become his wife in truth.

Sandor’s stomach twisted in knots as he admired her. _Just ask her, you bloody fool._ “So would you like to become my wife, Sansa?”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, Sandor! Nothing would make me happier!”

The next thing Sandor knew, the little bird had wrapped the entirety of her body around his, laughing and hugging and kissing him. “Then I will take you to wife after your sixteenth nameday.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an outtake that takes place on Sansa's sixteenth nameday, before she and Sandor are wed. A bit of sexy times for our favorite pair. Enjoy!

On Sansa’s sixteenth nameday, a great feast was held in her honor. Though Sandor was serving as her sworn shield, the young woman had insisted that her betrothed be given the day off to celebrate at her side. Ned generously allowed it, for the man felt it was time that Sandor begin courting her.

Before the celebration meal, Ned took Sandor aside. “It would be wise to begin courting her hand, now, Clegane.”

Courting. Sandor had no buggering idea what was expected of him. Oh, he had seen many of the highborn men take their intendeds on carriage rides, walks around the lavender fields, picnicking and the like, but Sandor had no intention of doing any of these things. He said as much to Ned, too.

“My lord, I’m not certain what you mean by “court” but whatever you want me to do, I am at your service.”

“Sansa needs to start seeing you as a _man_ and not just her sworn shield.” Ned handed him a glass of wine. “Do you understand me?”

Smirking, Sandor remained silent. The little bird already looked at him as one of the buggering knights from her songs. But her father need not know what went on between them.

Ned frowned at him. “Just make sure you have her full attention tonight, and that none of the other lads get too much of her time. Take her for walks, give her small gifts. Sansa is not hard to please.”

At Ned’s words, Sandor reached into his pocket and absently touched the gold chain he meant to give her that day. It had belonged to his sister, and was the only thing of value he could offer her. But Sandor kept all of this from his liege lord, and instead, he sighed his agreement and then made his way to her seat.

Wearing an emerald green velvet gown and her deep red hair falling to her waist, Sansa was so beautiful that just the sight of her made an unfamiliar ache take hold in his chest. When she caught sight of him, her face lit up, her reaction drawing the attention of all the guests. At once she rose to her feet and held her arms out to him eagerly.

“Oh Sandor, I am so happy to see you! I saved you a place right beside me. Please join me.”

Her apparent happiness at seeing him brought a small smile to the man’s face. “Aye, I will, but not yet. Can your guests spare you a moment?”

Sansa glanced around, and seeing most of her guests were either eating or well on their way to drunkenness, she agreed.  “Yes, of course my lord.”

“Then come with me. Won’t be gone but a quarter of an hour.”

Her septa shook her head. Sandor glared her into submission. “ _Alone_ , Lady Sansa, if it pleases you.”

Sansa’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “Yes, certainly my lord.”

Despite her septa’s clear disapproval, Sansa hurriedly made her way toward him.

Sandor leaned down and breathed into her ear. “Thought you were only supposed to run to me if you were being attacked, my lady.”

“Oh bother her!” Sansa answered back, earning a deep laugh from Sandor.

“Come, let’s take a turn.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” Sansa looked confused but eagerly looped her arm through his and followed Sandor’s lead.

The hot house of Winterfell was the only warm place out of doors, and so Sandor took her there. They walked in the same leisurely silence they always did, though the man could feel Sansa’s curiosity growing stronger by the moment.

After maneuvering her to a hidden spot, he turned her face up to him. “You’re not a child anymore- but a woman grown.” He let his gaze rove over her figure. A deep blush rose to her cheeks and clear down to her luscious cleavage.

“Thank you for noticing, my lord; I-I hoped that you would.” Blushing, she smoothed down the front of her gown with trembling hands.

Sandor raised his brow. “Oh, aye?”

“Yes,” Sansa bit her lip in much the same way she did as a little girl. “For it has been some time that I have…well, that I have noticed you as a man.”

She was staring up at him with those big blue eyes so intently that Sandor had to take a step back lest his kiss her then and there. He moved too slowly, however, for just then Sansa stepped toward him and cupped the burned side of his face.

“We will be married soon,” Sansa stood on her toes. “And I would very much like a kiss from my betrothed as a nameday gift.”

Sandor gripped her shoulders firmly. “You don’t want a kiss from the likes of me, little bird.”

“Oh, but I do, Sandor,” Sansa leaned in, brushing her lips lightly against his own in the barest whisper of a kiss.

Sansa kissed him inexpertly, gracelessly, but to Sandor, her tender attempts seared hotter than the most passionate nights he ever spent in a brothel. He yanked her flush against him and groaned at the feeling of her soft curves pressed into his body. Reminding himself to calm down, Sandor then cupped the back of her head with one hand while allowing the other to stroke her delicious curves.

Before long Sandor felt her little pink tongue sweep across his lower lip, and so he opened his mouth to her with a long moan. Sansa giggled against his lips until Sandor deepened the kiss further, swirling his tongue inside her mouth and earning him a low whimper from her throat, the sound painfully hardening his cock and straining the confines of his dress breeches.

Gently he lifted her into his arms and brought her level with his mouth while never removing his lips from her own. Walking her toward one of the walls, he then pressed his hips against her, allowing her to feel his need. Sansa gasped sharply but then surprised him by arching her back to meet him.

“Sandor,” she whispered in his ear before she delicately licked his pulse point. “I have so longed to touch and feel you in this way.”

Grunting, Sandor brought his mouth down to her collarbone and tasted her there, then gently placed soft kisses down to the neckline of her dress. Whining in need, Sansa wriggled in his arms, causing her woman’s place to rub against his cock in a most enticing manner.

Gods, it had been so long since he had a woman. Spilling into his hand had done little to curb his lust for the little bird. Sandor knew he had to stop this before he ripped off her gown and fucked her senseless right there in the glass garden. Breathing heavily, Sandor grudgingly tore his mouth away from her own, rested his head against her own and struggled to slow his breathing.

“How’s that for a nameday kiss?” He breathed against her lips before offering her one final chase kiss.

Sansa wanted more, he could tell, for her little hands clawed at his back while she pressed against him once more. “It was delicious, but I want more. So much _more_.” To his great surprise, she ground against him and draped one of her legs over his hip, pulling him closer still.

“No, Sansa, bloody hells, we have to stop this right now.” Sandor panted against her mouth. “I want you too much. Can’t you feel it, lass? If we keep up this way you won’t come to me a maiden on our wedded day.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she breathed against his lips before she kissed him again. “We are to be wed. And I want everything from you Sandor, don’t you see?”

“It does matter,” Sandor growled in return. “It matters to your father. He’ll have my head if I take you before.”

She looked so bloody disappointed that Sandor almost spilled his seed then and there.

Sansa’s breathing had slowed, and blushing, she finally raised her eyes to him. “Yes, you are right, of course. I don’t know what came over me. I just-I just care for you so very deeply, Sandor.” She took his hands in her own. “I know we must wait for…well, you know, but there are other things we can do, like kiss and hold one another. There are other ways to pleasure one another, I overheard one of the maids and…” she stammered, blushing deeply.  “I hope you won’t stay totally away from me until our wedded day.”

“The Warrior himself couldn’t keep me from you, little bird.”

“Sandor, I-I love you.”

“Sansa.” He placed his fingers over her lips so she wouldn’t interrupt him, the man at once distracted by their rosy plumpness. Absently Sandor began running his thumb over her lower lip. “You don’t have to say that just because we’re to be married. I’m sure you’ve often wished your father had picked a younger, prettier man for you than your old scarred dog.”

Her lovely eyes glistened with tears as he spoke, confusing the man further. “You mustn’t say such things, Sandor Clegane. I have loved you since I was a child, and as a woman I have loved you deeper than you could possibly know. I want this marriage. I want our lovemaking, too. I love you.”

He felt her hands tangle in his hair then. Sansa pulled him in closer, covering his face and neck with such tender kisses Sandor felt as though his heart might burst from it all.

Gently he pulled away. “Let’s get you back to your nameday celebration before your father sends out a search party.”

“Yes, Sandor,” Sansa nodded obediently. “But come to my rooms later. Say you will.”

“Aye, little bird,” Sandor could not deny her any longer, could deny _himself_ any longer.  “I’ll go.”

* * *

 

There was no lavish ceremony, nor great feast after on Sandor and Sansa's wedding day.

Going against tradition and the pleadings of her family, the little bird insisted only her family and Sandor's men attend the ceremony before the heart tree.

The eyes bled sap as they said their vows.  _A blessed omen_ , Sansa had whispered in his ear. It was a disconcerting sight, but Sandor took her word for it.

And blessed indeed was their marriage. The long winter ended not long after, and Sandor and Sansa's keep became the centre of rebuilding for the Free folk and smallfolk alike. Direwolves thrived within the keep.

The gods saw fit to give them eight sons and daughters, all healthy and hearty, and a long, prosperous life in the North.


End file.
